


Pieces Parts

by Atsvie



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Break Up, Jealousy, Multi, OFC is a plot device, Post Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsvie/pseuds/Atsvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after Wade disappears and leaves Peter hurt by the whole ordeal, he never really disappears. Even when Peter tries to move on, he still really only belongs to Wade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces Parts

It’s been four days since he’s heard from him.  
  
His bedroom is quiet, the air sterile and lifeless, and the light is smothered by the curtains he hasn’t bothered to draw. It’s too motionless, too devoid of chaotic energy. Peter hadn’t imagined that he would hate the silence so much. He had thought it would be some form of peace, but nothing about an aching pain in his chest and the ringing in his ears is peaceful.  
  
Ironically, the only solace he gets from the room is the immense amount of clutter that he left like a hurricane sweeping through. Clothes are strewn over toppled furniture, empty cartons of food tossed on the floor like styrofoam petals, and there’s enough brokenness to remind him of how it got that way. That he was here not too long ago.  
  
Five days ago.  
  
So maybe Peter is moping. Although it’s something close to mourning because the finalization of it hit him like the slamming of a door. The end. Grand finale. The show is over, it’s time to go home. Except he left him without a solid understanding of what exactly home is; Peter had uprooted his rock and placed it in the hands of a nomad.  
  
When does life start after it had just ended?  
  
Peter is so _mad_ because he had invested so much in him. He’d given him his heart and all the emotional strings and fragile components that had come with it. It hadn’t been stupid; he _knows_ the man is capable of maintaining a semi-stable relationship. Even though the concept of stability had been hidden away out of some wayward fear of having something meaningful since Siryn.  
  
Wade Wilson may be immortal, but he’s still just a man. He still susceptible to falling in love, and that’s why Peter is so angry that he could cry from the sheer frustration. Because he fell in love with Wade so hard that he didn’t have time to come up for air by the time the merc was storming out of the apartment.  
  
He knows Wade loves him too, otherwise this wouldn’t be this hard.  
  
The fact that it _is_ hard at all stabs at Peter’s pride. He’s a superhero and his emotions shouldn’t be able to have this much hold on him to the point that he feels heavy with all the unspoken words and fragments of sentiment. So he curls into himself, clutching at the twisted sheets half strewn off the bed and refuses to acknowledge the pressure behind his eyelids. It will only get beneath his skin and seep into the deepest layers of his being if he _lets_ it.  
  
Peter tries to tell himself that it hasn’t already.  
.  
.  
  
The next time that he sees Wade, the leaves are starting to color into rich reds and oranges. Splotches of golds paint the patches of tall oak trees that tower over the streets of the city. It’s all reminiscent of the last autumn spent treading the parks with his fingers intertwined with Wade’s warm, calloused ones. It’s not quite as cool as the last fall, but the air still smells strongly of the earth slowly dying.  
  
Peter swings between the space of two buildings when he sees a flash of red and black. It’s one of those ethereal moments when time slows and space blurs--it’s as if he’s been stopped mid motion, every fiber and cell freezing because it’s _him._  
  
It had been bound to happen at some point. New York isn’t a small town and Peter knows that life moves on--maybe not for him entirely, but for everyone else and Wade, the daily flow continues without a hitch. He likes to think sometimes, when he’s alone and can afford to leave his strong front behind, that maybe Wade misses him and that it had been a mistake. He knows it probably isn’t true, but he hates the feeling of being the only one who cares.  
  
When time resumes, Deadpool is no longer moving through the streets but fighting off Iron Man himself. Peter remembers that he’s on a mission, he’s on business. He can’t just let petty emotional attachments deter him away from what’s important. So he swallows dryly, his throat tight, and goes to offer his help to his teammates.  
  
By the time that he reaches the aftermath of the chaos--which is fairly contained as far as evil villains go--Steve is already talking to the police force and nodding his head sternly. Peter hasn’t really gotten used to distinguishing the Captain’s “business expression” from irritation, but he thinks that he knows the source of strain.  
  
“Hey Spidey. Long time no see.”  
  
Peter inhales but turns around, arms crossed. “Not long enough. What did you even do this time?”  
  
Tony is the one that speaks. “What Deadpool always does. Gets in our way with a ridiculous amount of explosions. He led the party here.”  
  
“I _am_ the life of the party,” Wade laughs. His wrists are cuffed together by thick bands of metal with blinking green lights. One of Tony’s inventions, undoubtedly, but it’s that Wade doesn’t resist. He doesn’t struggle and bounce like the body of untamed energy that he usually acts like.  
  
Peter, for once, is thankful for the dark red mask because he can pretend that Wade isn’t staring directly at him.  
  
“You can tell that to Fury,” Tony snorts. He lifts the faceplate of his helmet, eyes darting around to every other detail instead of Wade himself. He’s not really that interested in the merc, so long as he doesn’t get in the way. “Last that I heard, you were on SHIELD’s point system. Isn’t this strike number googleplex?”  
  
Wade shrugs, nonchalance rolling off of him in waves yet Peter can _feel_ his eyes on him, focused to a pinpoint. He can’t help but squirm, to fidget and hope to himself that Wade will stop because he’s doing business right now and can’t lose everything he’s worked for. It’s all he has left that Wade hasn’t already torn apart.  
  
The sirens in the background die down in a wailing decrescendo, the flashing lights dying out.  
  
“Is this going to be one of those awkward rom-com things?” Wade asks pleasantly. The full force of Peter’s social ineptitude crushes any clever response, because now he feels vulnerable--even in his suit where he knows he has power. That things are just hero business now, the face he wears is his mask’s and he had done this before, it shouldn’t be that hard.  
  
(Even though it is, because he can’t unseen all of the scarred flesh exposed over the expanse of his body, the color of his eyes under the electric lights of his bedroom, how it felt to just be Wade and Peter. He wishes it had been a fling.)  
  
“No,” Peter answers firmly, rolling his shoulders nervously. He can’t help but _fidget_ and it’s a habit that he knows that he’ll recognize, but he’s still pleased that he kept his voice steady. “Why should it?”  
  
“Because you’re the sentimental type,” Wade shrugs. He doesn't need to say anything to be reminded of the nights he shook and screamed Gwen's name into Wade's shoulder. All of the moments that he let himself be completely honest in his grief.  
  
And there's that dizzy feeling in his head because he knows that Wade is aware of just how sentimental Peter really is.The fact that he even brings that up makes his vision spin and his stomach tighten. At least when he thought he could hide it, he could pretend that it didn't matter.  
  
Peter doesn't answer him. He just stands there in some form of nervous shock with all of his instincts telling him to just run. Wade says something before SHIELD agents come to collect him, but Peter doesn't hear it.  
.  
.  
That night, Peter dreams of scarred hands on his skin.  
  
Somewhere in between the realm of sleep and coherency, he can feel the phantom fingers pressing into his arms, his hips and thighs. It’s the same calloused, rough grip that had been burned into his memory and maybe that’s why it seems so vivid.  
  
He jolts up with a strangled gasp--it’s as if all the air has been forcibly ripped from his lungs and his chest heaves as he tries to register that he’s alone. There’s a cold sweat on his skin and his throat is dry when he tries to swallow down the nausea.  
  
This needs to stop, he decides.  
  
The clock on the bedside table glares back an angry red 2:42 and Peter doesn’t think he’ll be getting back to sleep anytime soon.  
  
With a shaky sigh, he pulls himself out of his sheets and lets his bare feet drop against the cool floor. He takes a moment just to breathe, to soak up the sensation of the chill of the air because at least that means that this is real. It means that he’s still aware of himself. A few moments later, he shakes his head and shrugs on a t-shirt and a worn, red jacket, tugging up yesterday’s jeans.  
  
He double checks the lock on the door as he leaves his apartment before taking the stairs down to the street. The city is entirely different at night, and at one time, Peter had preferred the glow of the lights and the darkness of the sky dripping behind towering buildings. There are still people everywhere, but it’s a different kind of busy. It’s the kind of busy where he hangs his head low and avoids eye contact.  
  
Even through the jacket, the night air is still cold enough that he tucks his arms around his sides as he walks. And maybe he resents the drunk couple that passes him, wearing less than he is but a mess of arms and stumbling affection that seems to be keeping them warm. There’s no buffer in the cold for Peter, the fabric of the jacket is too thin and he thinks of a time where he couldn’t go without having a hand on some part of him as they walked.  
  
“Yeah, party,” Peter mumbles to himself sarcastically, “That’s what I do on my Tuesday nights when I’m not saving you.”  
  
The supermarket that he walks into is empty aside from a girl crouched in one of the aisles and the man half asleep at the desk. The lights hum and flicker while a low static from the news resounds through the area around the counter from a tiny TV mounted overhead. He can’t think of anything that he needs exactly, though he almost trips over the girl who is gathering cans of instant coffee into her arms.  
  
Peter mumbles an awkward apology and swiftly turns into the next aisle. It’s mostly to avoid contact, so he doesn’t realize until he’s staring at pink boxes that he’s walked into the _feminine care products._  
  
“Really?” he says to himself, but backs up and quickly heads towards the refrigerators to grab a Coke. He had no reason for going in there other than to be somewhere that’s not his apartment, so he doesn’t walk in with a purpose.  
  
By the time that he gets to the counter, the girl is there with wavy black locks falling down her back digging through her purse. There’s five cans of instant coffee sitting on the counter and the clerk looks like he’s still about to fall asleep.  
  
“I’m sure I’ve got it, here’s another dollar, just,” she says to herself, frantically looking through her purse and Peter can’t help but be reminded of the night where everything changed. Without thinking, he pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and offers her a five dollar bill.  
  
The girl turns to look at him, dark bangs falling into her eyes--which are so strikingly _blue_ even through the strands of hair in the way. She’s pale, not a trace of makeup on her face, with heavy bags under her eyes. She blinks at him a long moment, hesitantly reaching out for the money.  
  
“Thank you,” she says, shuffling to pay the clerk before tilting her head back to look at Peter again, “I only needed two more dollars. But seriously, thank you. I’m writing my thesis and need as much caffeine as I can get,” she pauses, chewing on her bottom lip as the coffee is bagged, “Otherwise I wouldn’t take your money. I’m just really tired, I’m sorry.”  
  
Peter nods and finds himself smiling at her, if not just to make her feel better because he knows an awkward ramble when he hears one. “It’s no problem. I can’t really say I’ve been there but I have a feeling that’s a five well spent. I don’t need change though.”  
  
Her lips curl into a frown, the money crumpling in her hand as she holds it out to him. “No, you were nice enough to help out as it was.”  
  
He turns back to the counter to pay for his drink and upon looking back, he sees her scribbling on the back of her receipt before offering him a small quirk of her lips. The paper has a slanted phone number on it with the name “Nicki” scrawled underneath it.  
  
“You should call me sometime,” she blurts out, but clears her throat and pauses before continuing with her face a shade darker. “Wow, I didn’t mean to sound really forward I don’t know your name, but I’m Nicki and I mean you should call me so I can take you out to coffee because niceness should be returned.”  
  
Peter looks down at the receipt again, nodding slowly. He’s partly weary, but a small part of him is excited because this isn’t something that happens to him. Not after nasty breakups like something out of a romance novel. Even if it’s more like awkward fumbling around each other and _just coffee_. But it’s the concept and it’s probably almost 3 in the morning so he nods again. “Yeah, I’d like that. I mean. After your thesis, though. That sounds like uninterrupted work to be done.”  
  
Nicki giggles, her voice more rich than high pitched, and Peter finds that he likes the sound of her laugh and the way she raises her first to her mouth like it’ll stifle the noise. “It’s due tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Oh,” she nods in agreement. “But the rest of the week I’m free unless you count my internet time as something that needs to be planned around.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Peter tells her with a grin, tucking her number into his pocket. They walk towards the automatic doors together and the cool air hits his face like a wave. And it’s cold, but not the same cold that penetrated his skin before. Maybe it’s the way that she leans in a little closer, enough that he catches the scent of something sweet mixed with espresso.  
  
“Good. Because--you’re nice,” Nicki laughs again and her entire face lights up with the sound, “And cute.”  
  
Before he can respond, she waves at him with a wide grin and runs across the empty street. There’s a moment that she looks back to yell, “Call me!” but Peter is left standing in front of the convenience store with his fingers clenched around the waxy paper in his pocket and a lighter feeling in his chest.  
.  
.  
As it turns out, Nicki is something of a major geek. Peter learns that she’s what one would probably call a hipster, but she couldn’t pull off that level of pretentious if she tried--despite the love affair with obscure novels and indie music. And scarves.  
  
“It’s hipster _style,”_ she corrects him over coffee a few days later. Her dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head, bangs pulled off to the side so that he can clearly see the shimmer in teal irises whenever she smiles. And her smile. It’s something that Peter finds himself babbling just to draw forth because her smile is small and amused, almost secretive.  
  
But he learns a lot about Nicki through their coffee sort-of date. And the copious amounts of texts that follow suit. He learns that she’s an English major with an inclination towards Victorian and gothic novels. She loves Doctor Who and Star Trek. She’s curious about comics and interested in borrowing his Batman comics when she gets the chance.  
  
With Nicki, in the small amount of time that he’s talked to her, it’s just so _easy._ It’s like everything falls into place because it’s meant to, like completing a puzzle without having realizing that all the pieces were lined up across from each other.  
  
She’s not as strong and the kind of force that draws attention with all the flawlessness that Gwen was. But at the same time he’s slightly reminded of her, the way that his first love had been so light and _happy._ Nicki is quieter and socially awkward--she later admits that giving him her number had by far been the bravest move she’s ever attempted--but she’s opinionated in that when she speaks about her beliefs, the earnesty is practically palpable.  
  
Maybe it’s because she’s so much like him. But Peter realizes how easy it is to talk to her, to gravitate towards her laugh and quiet smiles. She’s everything he could have wanted in a partner and he wonders if this is the change that he needs. If finding another half means finding a kindred spirit.    
  
Peter thinks that she’s the kind of girl he’s meant to fall in love with.  
  
So he tries to. He asks her out on a movie and dinner date where they curl towards each other in the dark of the theater and make geeky comments through the movie and talk about sci-fi--the common ground between his field of physics and her realm of literature--over dinner. He knows that she’s becoming terribly enamored with him by the way she blushes and looks at him so sweetly. But that’s a good thing--a great thing--he tells himself.  
  
Because this is the one constant in his life where he doesn’t have to worry about that particular mask. He’s just Peter when he’s with Nicki. He doesn’t want her to know about Spider-Man and all of the chain wrapped skeletons that he lugs around with him. For once, he just wants one thing in his life that hasn’t been ruined by that part of his identity. He just wants something normal and quiet.  
  
Two weeks later, Peter meets her roommate Anna in some rendition of meeting the parents. She’s an average height with a darker shade of hair than Nicki’s down to chin. She stands in front of him with her hands on her hips, sizing him up despite that she leans up to do so. Anna looks over him with dark brown eyes--trying to hide a smile as she does so--before nodding at him and demanding that to complete her test of approval he must sit down with her and Nicki and watch _Mean Girls._  
  
“Sorry, she’s protective,” Nicki giggles and tucks her knees to the side next to him on the couch. Peter makes a show of seeing if Anna is watching before slowly wrapping an arm around Nicki’s shoulders. Her smaller frame naturally melts into his side, and he realizes then as Anna yells about hand checks like they’re sixteen, that this is such a good thing for him. That he’s missed being normal and the simplicity of it all.  
  
They both laugh as quietly as they can when Anna falls off the couch in her sleep halfway through the movie. Peter takes the opportunity in something of a whim and impulsiveness to lean down and press his lips against hers. When he tries to pull away, there’s a hand on the back of his neck pulling him back and they’re both smiling into the kiss.  
  
When Peter leaves, she stretches up on her tiptoes in the doorway to kiss him again. His face is warm and he just feels so _content._ It’s nothing electric that makes him thirst for more, it’s just nice.  
  
Nicki isn’t the love of his life like Gwen was. And she’s not the one he gave his heart to permanently. But she’s everything he should want--she an ideal for happiness whether this is what he wants or not. And he isn’t just about to push that away.  
.  
.  
After the day when Peter saw Deadpool again for the first time, he had essentially vanished. Which part of him is thankful for, being that he’s still unsure of how to balance the intensity of everything that had been directed towards Wade--feelings and regrets--with the newfound comfort he finds in Nicki. It allows him to completely _avoid_ everything confrontational and stressful.  
  
Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t miss him, though. Because he does, in the moments that he lies awake in a bed that’s been refilled with the petite frame of a girl with subtle, soft curves. He misses the reassuring weight of muscle and roughness of callous skin. He wants it to be a thick arm around his waist, a hard chest against his back.  
  
He’s never really had an issue with his sexuality. Women have always been a constant in his life because he’s so easily charmed by their grace and power that’s lighter but sharper than the bulk of masculinity. But it never bothered him that he found himself attracted to jawlines with stubble and the strong frame of men. Both had their attributes that he loved.  
  
But in the dark when he’s asleep in Nicki’s bed with an arm around her waist, he wonders if it’s because she’s a girl. It’s been three months and he desperately wants to fall in love with this girl--he wants to want her more than anything, to want to drop everything to make her happy and adore her. She’s everything he should want.  
  
So he thinks to himself if maybe he’s not attracted to her, eyes scanning over the gentle roll of her hip and the bulge of her breasts. And that’s not the problem--he’s _very_ attracted to her. He thinks she gorgeous and thinks that he could see himself having sex with her. Even though he’s the one who has denied it every time she has offered it to him.  
  
But then he thinks of Gwen, and there’s still an ache in his heart albeit dulled from time and slow acceptance. And he knows if she were alive, she would be the only thing he wanted--the one thing he would want more than him. Because Gwen was his rock, his intellectual equal and anchor. She was the girl of his dreams, everything he wanted to _be._  
  
(Sometimes he hates himself for moving on from her, because if he would have kept mourning her loss, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with Wade. He wouldn’t have let himself fall entirely. Gwen had his heart and soul. Wade took everything in between.)  
  
The realization that he can’t love her because she’s _her_ and not _him_ scares him more than the previous thought did.  
.  
.  
“He knows about your little girlfriend.”  
  
It isn’t as though Peter had tried to keep the subject of Nicki quiet, so he shouldn’t feel such a surprised jolt laced with a certain amount of dread at the statement. Peter had known he would find out at some point, but it doesn’t stop him from nearly tripping over his feet when he tries to get up from the meeting table.  
  
Stark Tower doesn’t exactly constitute as a healthy breakdown environment.  
  
But there he is, staring at Clint like he had just announced the end of the world. Clint has always been a fairly nice guy, but there is no hint of bullshitting around when it comes to the assassin. Peter swallows the lump that’s managed to form and make a home in his throat. “Why does that matter?”  
  
Clint shrugs, because this really isn’t his problem. “Just thought you would want to know. We both know how he is.”  
  
 _Impulsive. Selfish. Possessive._  
  
“Yeah,” Peter mutters, wrapping his arms around himself like his last line of defense. There’s a storm brewing, he can feel the settling of cool air and the distant telltale rumble of thunder in the distance. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to face it--but it’s a bit hard to keep running away when you’re caught in the eye of the storm.  
  
Peter leaves the room looking over his shoulder, furrowing his brows at the paranoid weight against his back. He can’t place the phantom presence, but it’s smothering and seering against skin. There’s nothing to suggest anything but his own fears and emotions manifesting themselves, though, so he shakes it off and tells himself there had not been anyone there to watch him.  
.  
.  
A week later, his phone rings around four in the morning.  
  
Mumbling with his mind still blanketed in sleep, Peter fumbles for the phone vibrating on the bedside table. Nicki stirs in his arms, pressing her face further into his neck but not woken up by the intrusion. The light is blaring in the comfortable darkness of the room--it takes a moment of his eyes adjusting and his mind catching up with his motor movements to register, ‘WADE is calling’ sprawled across the screen.  
  
He shouldn’t answer. God, there are so many reasons why he should just ignore the call and wrap his body tighter around the girl in his arms. It’s too late for this, he’s with his girlfriend of almost a half a year, Wade has no right to call him, _where was he six months ago?_  
  
“What?” Peter’s voice is a whisper, but he rushes it into the phone before he can realize that he has the phone up to his ear and he’s hunched over towards the end of the bed, Nicki clinging to him in her sleep with thin arms wrapped around his waist.  
  
“Hey.” Wade sounds like he always has, like he isn’t calling at some ungodly hour and Peter isn’t in bed with a girl.  
  
“Why are you calling me?”  
  
“Maybe I just missed you,” Wade says, sounding offended. Peter feels his stomach lurch and he wishes it’s an entirely bad sensation and not like the reaction he would have had months ago. He doesn’t want to fall back into him, not after he had spent so much time trying to forcibly tear out all of the messy feelings that Wade left behind.  
  
There’s a long moment as Peter tries to collect himself. “You would be lying then.” Wade isn’t allowed to _miss_ him when he was the one who dealt the damage.  
  
“Is that your way of saying you don’t want to talk to me?”  
  
Peter glances down at the girl in his arms, vulnerable and blissfully unaware in her sleep. “I shouldn’t.”  
“But you want to.” It’s not a question.  
  
“I’m going to wake up my girlfriend,” Peter frowns, avoiding answering the question partially because he doesn’t know if he wants to admit the answer to himself, much less acknowledge it. “I really can’t.”  
  
Wade pauses, a moment of static through the phone. “She can’t give you what you want.”  
  
How dare he? How dare Wade make any judgement about his relationship that he knows nothing about--and how dare he be right. It’s not something that Peter is ready to admit out loud because he’s still partly trying to convince himself that he can make it work, that she can make him happy.  
  
“And you can?” Peter hisses.  
  
“I don’t know,” Wade says, and it’s the most honest he has ever heard him, his voice clear and sincere enough that for once, Peter wants to cling to it and believe him. “But I could try. You know I’m shit at all this, but I could.”  
  
Sometime between Wade’s voice taking on that painfully honest tone and honest to god tenderness and Peter starting to feel his throat constrict, he hangs up the phone without warning. This isn’t something he can handle; he can’t do this now. He has a girl asleep with him, there’s things to do tomorrow and a life to return to, Peter can’t let Wade get to him.  
  
He tries to remember how to breathe, focusing on the mechanics, something concrete that he can understand. In and out. He can imagine the air seeping into his lungs and the oxygen traveling through his veins. It helps put it all in perspective--he’s alive and breathing, he’s going to be okay.  
  
It takes a few minutes and purposefully ignoring the buzzing phone on the mattress before he’s able to turn it off and slowly pry himself from the bed. Nicki moans sleepily, fingers clenching at his arms when he pulls away. “Peter?”  
  
“Shh,” he mumbles, running a hand through her hair, “I’m just. I’m going to go take a shower. Go back to sleep.”  
  
There’s a soft groan in reply and she flops back into the sheets. Rubbing his bare arms, Peter carefully makes his way to the bathroom. The apartment is a collection of shadows, the moonlight muffled by curtains and electric lights flickering as he switches them on in the bathroom. The tiles are cool against his feet, the light too bright, and he takes a moment to lean against the sink with that light, cold feeling in his head.  
  
He tries to keep his mind clear as he starts the water, thinking off simple things like shampoo and towels and water bills. His clothes fall to the ground carelessly, fingers pulling at the cloth in a trance before he steps under the water. It’s cold but he doesn’t bother turning the heat up because the chill seeps under his skin like another sense of reality. His other senses seem to be failing him for that.  
  
The water pelts down against his skin, droplets falling into his face from the tips of his hair. Showers usually calm his mind, letting all of the stress and worries wash off his skin like the day’s grime. But this is like a perpetual layer of feelings he can’t really put a name to that won’t rub off, no matter how long he stands under the shower the water doesn’t help cleanse Wade from his head.  
  
Peter doesn’t like to think of himself as a weak person--because he’s not. But he has to acknowledge that just because he is superhuman does not absolve him from the human portion that unfortunately comes with emotions. Granted, he’s something awful with these emotions because they tangle together like loose threads and he can never quite unwind them.  
  
Wade just comes with too many feelings tangled up that keep his words stuck in his throat.  
  
Because now that his head is a little clearer and his stomach is settled, Peter wonders why he picked up the phone. Even in his sleep inhibited state, everything in him screamed not to give in like he had accomplished something thus far.  
  
And at the same time, he doesn’t hate himself for answering because that had been Wade’s voice all low and warm. There’s a level of comfort found in one person that really doesn’t go away despite that it should. Despite that Peter is going to fuck himself over if he even thinks of letting his guard back down.  
  
The water makes his muscle loose and warm once he finds himself used to the temperature. Peter doesn’t think about how this is the same shower Wade took him against the wall in, or the mornings where they Wade followed him in after, flicking shampoo bubbles into his face.  
  
When he’s dried off and too awake for nearly five in the morning, he goes back to his room and looks at the girl on the bed before deciding to sleep on the couch.  
.  
.  
“Do you know a guy named Wade?”  
  
Peter raises his head from his plate of Chinese takeout--because neither of them can cook and this is the equivalent of their date night in--and slowly shakes his head because he can’t form the words to properly respond.  
Nicki looks perplexed if not a little concerned. She always looks curious, with that brightness in her eyes and the flitting movement like she’s trying to soak up every detail around her. But this is different, she knows more than she’s letting on and covering it with the neutral expression on her face as she takes another bite of fried rice.  
  
“Peter?” she tries again, slowly setting down her chopsticks.  
  
She shouldn’t know that name, Peter thinks, gripping the wooden chopsticks in his hand harder. Control. No super strength in front of her, she doesn’t know. Peter breathes out, relaxing his knuckles and ducking his head into his hands. “Why do you know that name?”  
  
Nicki shrugs. She picks at the rice idly, avoiding his eyes. “Met someone named Wade today at the library. Said he knew you. I couldn’t really see his face? I don’t know who wears a hoodie in a library but he was kind of obnoxious.”  
  
“Don’t worry about him,” Peter says quickly, “He’s just a guy I used to know. He didn’t say anything upsetting did he?”  
  
“No,” Nicki finally says, still not looking at him, “No, he didn’t.”  
.  
.  
The Avengers need him and so Peter has to end their date midway through the movie. He apologizes and kisses her cheek, telling her it’s an emergency with work because that’s partially true although his work is a lot different from what she thinks.  
  
She doesn’t say anything as he leaves, but she doesn’t come back to his apartment that night.    
.  
.  
  
It happens faster than Peter can process it all.  
  
She’s screaming and throwing books at his head, arms waving and stomping around his apartment, slinging a duffel bag over her shoulder, slamming the door to their--his--bedroom.  
It’s two weeks after Wade calls him that Peter comes home to Nicki leaving in a fit of rage.  
  
He doesn’t understand what she’s saying but there’s something about lying and his stomach lurches at the possibilities. She can’t know about the suit, about what he really does instead of working late with his camera. But she deflects all of his questions, shoves him away with her elbow when he tries to calm her down.  
  
“I don’t even know what you’re mad at me for,” Peter says desperately.  
  
Her face crumples and oh god, there are tears. The bag drops with a thud onto the ground, her arms limp at her sides; Peter doesn’t know if he should comfort her physically when apparently he’s the source of the problem.  
  
She sniffles, wiping furiously at her eyes, “I know you’ve been lying to me about where you go some nights.”  
  
Peter feels a little dizzy.  
  
“I thought maybe you were seeing someone else when it got weird,” she continues, wrapping her arms around herself, “But you were too nice of a guy for that. I just--I couldn’t understand what it was and then that guy--Wade--showed up again. He told me in the library that you were lying but I shook it off.”  
  
“Nicki, Wade is my ex-boyfriend,” Peter admits, and the words sound so strange coming out of his mouth, “He’s just trying to scare you off, okay?”  
  
“But he’s right!” Nicki snaps, “He’s...he’s some kind of monster, haven’t you seen his face?”  
  
Peter flinches. Wade isn’t a monster. He’s an asshole with a jealous streak and fails to understand how to healthily convey emotions, but he’s not a monster. Especially because of his scars. He opens his mouth to say so, because no matter how wrong Wade had been, she doesn’t get the right to say that about him.  
  
She cuts him off. “He’s some kind of mercenary, but you knew that because you’re involved with all that dangerous stuff. I...I don’t understand it. And I don’t want to understand it. I don’t know what you do, Peter, but I can’t handle it when you’re lying to me and I don’t want to be dragged into this.”  
  
He swallows, raking a hand through his hair as he tries to think this through. She’s right, in a way, because he can’t drag her into this life. Peter had been stupid to think he could have any semblance of normalcy in his life.  
  
Gwen could have handled it. She would have been alright with it; he wouldn’t have had to lie to her in the first place. But no one else will ever be Gwen Stacy and this poor civilian girl thinks he’s involved with gang violence.  
  
“I can’t explain it to you,” Peter says softly, “But I’m sorry. So. I get that you want to leave, I just hate that it’s like this, you know?”  
  
“Of course you can’t explain it,” She sighs, exasperated. She bends down and slings the bag over her shoulder again, drying her eyes. Something like this is too emotionally straining for people not involved in this business, she doesn’t know how to handle the violence and danger. “I can’t do this. Goodbye, Peter.”  
  
Nicki walks past him, eyes forward and jaw tight. It doesn’t hurt like it should, there’s no stab of pain or aching that comes with her walking out of his life. He doesn’t think that he’ll see her again, but that’s strangely alright. He would have liked to stay friends, maybe, but this isn’t the heartbreak that left him mourning for years or moping in his bedroom for months.  
  
Peter hadn’t loved her, and that’s okay.  
  
It’s almost like the first breath after he hadn’t realized he had been holding it all this time. All of the constrictions coming loose now that he’s not forcing himself to believe that he wants her. Peter should have moved on from her a while ago, but this had never been about he and Nicki. This had only ever been about he and Wade. About how he couldn’t go back to Wade if he was with her, how he could spite Wade with his pretend happiness as long as it hadn’t been with him.  
  
And Wade. Peter is furious with him, anger seething at the thought that Wade had scared off an innocent girl. Nicki hadn’t deserved that, to be frightened by Wade because he had been jealous. There are so many things wrong with what just happened, the break-up being the least of Peter’s concerns.  
  
He needs to see Wade, he needs to yell and scream and get out all of the emotions he’s chained down and swallowed.  
  
Before Wade disappeared, he had an apartment that was cheap and run down. He kept it equally dirty and cluttered, and Peter had found himself spending a good deal of his free time there anyways. Wade isn’t a creature of habit by any means, but Peter thinks he’s probably there anyways because he wants Peter to find him.  
  
He wouldn’t have scared off Nicki if he didn’t want Peter to search him out.  
  
The streets are congested and busy, like everyone has a programmed destination and quickly walks past him on the street. Peter doesn’t mind. He shoves his hands into his pockets, following the route to Wade’s old apartment by instinct that’s far more familiar than he would like it to be. His suit is stuffed in his backpack just in case.  
  
He looks past the bustling people, heading straight for the old building and up the creaky stairs to the second floor. Wade had wanted him here, and Peter had come.  
  
“Wade, open up!” Peter yells, slamming his fist against the door a few times. He has no idea if Wade is even there, but he’s too angry to care.  
The door rustles after a moment, swinging open to Wade in nothing but his red mask and a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “Well, well. What brings you here, Peter?”  
  
Peter seriously considers punching him. “You know what,” he hisses.  
  
Wade leans against the frame of the door casually, crossing his arms over his chest. The scars haven’t bothered Peter in a while, even now as he’s basically level with a well muscled chest of scarred skin. “Is this about that girl?”  
  
“What the actual fuck, Wade?” Peter doesn’t yell, but he’s close to it. He hates that Wade is so aloof about this like he doesn’t even care--because he _doesn’t_ care. Wade could take a hundred people down with him as long as he earned some kind of personal benefit from it and he wouldn’t _care._ He’s too much of a mercenary, even outside of his work.  
  
“You know you’re really hot when you’re angry?” Wade comments, stepping back into the apartment and Peter follows like he’s being tugged forward on a string. The apartment is the same mess that it’s always been but Peter doesn’t take note of it much beyond the pizza box that knocks his foot.  
  
If Wade is ignoring the point, Peter can ignore the way that he lowers his voice into a texture rich with want.  
  
“Stop. What did you say to her?” Peter demands, taking a step back when Wade takes a step forward, toward him.  
  
The worst part about this is that Peter can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s never known what he’s thinking but his body language only suggests sex with the languid movements and the way Wade stalks forward. And he has no way of seeing his expression with that damn mask, so Peter is left guessing when it comes to what Wade is thinking.  
  
“You want to know?” Wade asks, cocking his head to the side. “I told her that her boyfriend lies to her because I thought she should know. You’re the one involving her in this, Peter.”  
  
It sounds too much like what Peter would say.  
  
“Don’t give me that. What did you really want?” Brown eyes glare at Wade for a long moment before squeezing shut. “Because I was finally happy. Why did you have to ruin that?”  
  
Anger seems to radiate off of Wade, even though he can’t see the way that his face clenches and his eyes ignite--blue irises on fire--he can see the slight shake to his frame. And he’s being slammed against the door, wrists pinned over his head in a grip that would hurt anyone else. Peter is about two seconds from throwing him off because Wade should know better than to think he can hold him down when he starts talking.  
  
“Happy? You were _happy_ with her? We both know she could never make you happy. You’re not here because you loved her, Peter, you’re here because I pissed you off,” Wade grips his wrists a little tighter like it will make a difference. He’s too close, too personal, and Peter hates how he can actually pick up the exposed emotion in his voice because it used to take so much for him to get Wade to say something he actually meant.  
  
“I’m here because you had no right to scare her!” Peter shoves at him, bringing his knees up so that he can kick Wade off of him. Wade clings to his wrists and they both topple to the floor, clawing at each other’s arms with Wade trying to keep Peter down. He wonders if it’s more to _keep him there_ than a display of power because the merc has never pretended that he couldn’t throw him off.  
  
“She had no right to act like you loved her,” Wade says, pulling at his arms when Peter tries to cover his face because Wade is on top of him, all heavy weight and tangible pressure for the first time in over a half a year. No matter how many times Peter pulls his arms back, Wade swats at him, pulling like an automatic reaction, to _see_ him.  
  
Peter doesn’t want to look at him, even if it’s just his mask, he doesn’t want to recognize that he’s letting Wade pin him to his floor in a half assed straddle. He doesn’t want Wade to see him like this when he’s set up nice walls and barriers since he left.  
  
“I hate you,” Peter chokes out, voice hoarse and he still refuses to look at him. He screws his eyes shut, even as Wade’s hand cups his cheek--and no, _no_ he is not allowed to be so fucking ginger about it now after all this time--and makes him look toward him. He doesn’t think either of them really believe him, but he says it again anyways.  
  
“You don’t. You’re here because you still fucking love me which is insane and stupid but you’re not hers, you’ve always been mine,” Wade rambles, it’s that circuitous train of thought where all the words just pour out unfiltered.  
  
“You’re not making this about that,” Peter shakes his head, not denying it but sure as hell not confronting it. “I’m mad at you, so mad. I want to hit you and scream and everything about this is _not okay._ ”  
  
“You can be mad at me,” Wade breathes, voice ghosting over him and oh god that shouldn’t still be able to rack a shudder up his spine. Peter squirms, his breath shaky and his resolve is crumbling, everything is falling down and spiraling and he doesn’t know what to do when he _wants_ so badly when he shouldn’t.  
  
Peter shoves at him, not enough to push him off but just anything to stop the knots in his stomach and the pull towards Wade. One of Wade’s hands is still on his wrists--and Peter hates that he could break away if he really wanted to, because he’s still here--and the other has moved from his jaw to Wade’s mask. His fingers slide under the fabric, creeping it up over his mouth and he leans in just a little, enough to kiss him.  
  
But Peter _wants._ No matter how mad at Wade he is, no matter how much anger has coiled under his skin, it’s all leaking out. All of the feelings and hurt and longing for him for the last half a year is escaping through the cracks and he can’t stop any of it. So Peter doesn’t want the kiss he knows is coming with Wade’s mask pushed up.  
  
He wants the scars and bright blue irises, pupils blown out as he tears his wrists from Wade’s hand and pulls off the rest of the mask before he crushes their mouths together, hands on either side of Wade’s face. It’s not sweet and soft, it’s not a reunion kiss that makes it all better--it’s all the pent up hurt and want from all these months, all of the passion and bottled energy that Peter has put away.  
  
Wade responds just as quickly, though, kissing him back hard. He’s never been a graceful kisser, but this is pressure and a hint of teeth, more like communicating without the words and through the mutual clinging.  
  
Peter’s head is spinning and he just knows that he wants to kiss Wade, to wind his arms around his neck and lick his way into his mouth. He’s drowning in all of the overwhelming senses of Wade, filled up by the way he tastes and the familiar scent and the feel of his hands on his hips. Wade’s tongue pushes into his mouth, demanding and impatient, and Peter meets it with his own, the kiss sloppier but still fervent.  
  
Sometime in between Peter grabbing at the fabric of Wade’s pants and the kiss being broken for Wade to mouth at his neck, he feels Wade’s hands slide under him, gripping at his ass and pulling him up. They nearly fall over, but Wade balances them so that Peter can wrap his legs around the taller’s waist as he stands up and attempts to walk them back to the bedroom.  
  
They get distracted by running into walls a few times, which is okay because Peter moans out at the feeling of Wade’s teeth on the skin of his neck, the feeling of having hickeys sucked into his skin all bright and red.  
  
It’s a flurry of unbalanced movements and knocking into doors, but Peter is finally falling onto the stiff mattress in Wade’s room, the door being kicked closed behind Wade. They’re both tearing off clothing, Wade trying to kiss him again while they both scramble to remove his t-shirt which results in broken kisses as he pulls it over his head.  
  
Peter is so hard, so painfully turned on after so much waiting and wanting and having Wade too busy putting his mouth to use by kissing down his body from his collar to his navel to talk for once. He feels him at his waist, hands on his thighs and his mouth over one of his hipbones, tracing it until he moves down lower.  
  
“Wade,” Peter bites back a moan, “Don’t you dare tease me right now. I’m still so mad and I could ahh--”  
  
Wade is actually smirking up at him before he licks a stripe up his cock, one hand holding the base. And it isn’t fair, he can’t shut him up by rendering him a moaning mess even if it’s working when Wade takes the head of his cock into his mouth and bobs his head a little. Which _dear god_ Peter forgot what it was like to watch him take his cock down, how hot and wet his mouth was around his cock.  
  
He can’t help but thrust up a little, which Wade takes greedily, sucking more of his cock into his mouth like he can’t get enough of it. Six months must do that to a person considering the way that Wade is giving him head so enthusiastically.  
  
“Wade,” Peter tries again, though his voice is shaky and he nearly throws his head back in another loud moan, “Stop. Just. Mm fuck. Fuck _me._ Now.”  
  
Six months ago Wade would have stopped and asked if Peter wanted an award for actually saying the phrase, “Fuck me” but Peter is desperate and can barely articulate what he wants in fragments of sentences.  
  
He misses Wade’s mouth on his cock as soon as he moves off him with a final lick to the pre-come leaking from the head. But it’s okay because Wade is back over him, roughly pushing his legs apart and moving between them. And Peter barely has any time to beg him to hurry up because Wade’s tongue is back in his mouth with frantic kisses.  
  
“Fingers,” Peter gasps out, breaking the kiss, “Fingers now.”  
  
Wade rolls off of him to grab the lube and he takes a moment to really look at him for the first time in so long. Everything is happening in a rush, but for this moment he looks at the muscles in thick, corded arms, his back and chest. He looks at the way he bends his body when he moves, still like he can’t sit still.  
  
He doesn’t look at the scars because they just don’t matter. They never really have.  
  
Wade comes back to him, popping open the lid and its back to quick movements and less thought. Until two two slick fingers are trying to pry him open. Peter hisses, smacking at him. “A little less rough?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure we were having mindless angry sex?” Wade asks, sounding too amused for this--Peter is still mad.  
  
Peter feels his face flush. “I just. I haven’t. Since...”  
  
“Seriously?” Wade shakes his head, but eases up when he stretches at his hole with the fingers, taking his time to slide them in. “I thought you and her at least fucked.”  
  
“No,” Peter gasps, digging his nails into Wade’s forearms as the digits work further inside of him. “No one but you.”  
  
“Good,” Wade’s voice rumbles, thrusting the fingers back in a little deeper and Peter nearly yelps, keening into the touch and oh god he’s missed this, the way Wade feels inside him even if it’s just his fingers. Wade curls them, like he’s reacquainting himself and Peter moans needily because he needs more and bucks his hips up.  
  
“Hurry up,” Peter breathes, gyrating his hips into Wade’s hand impatiently. He’s almost fucking himself on Wade’s fingers, eyes closed as he just tries to get more friction.  
  
“Though you wanted it slower,” Wade snorts, pulling out his fingers too quickly. Peter sees him sloppily squirting more lube into his palm, rubbing it over his cock--which is hard and red and Peter _really_ wants that inside him.  
  
Peter bites his lip to muffle the noise when Wade hooks his arms under Peter’s knees, over his shoulders and he can feel the head of his cock heavy against his entrance. Wade grins at him, it’s a bit lopsided and Peter hates it because it’s so endearing.  
  
“I hate you,” Peter says weakly, breath catching in his throat when the head of Wade’s cock presses into him.  
  
“Yeah,” Wade laughs, voice raspy, “I know, I know.”  
  
Peter thinks he might fall apart right there on Wade’s mattress which is still too stiff and smells off. Everything is too hot and he can’t think and he loves it all because of the way Wade fucks him open slowly at first, cock pushing into him. He’s almost forgotten how full he can feel with Wade inside him, like he’s been walking around without part of himself until now.  
  
“Wade,” Peter moans, body twisting as his hands grasp for anything to grip onto, which end up being the sheets next to his head, _“Wade.”_  
  
Wade sounds like he’s saying something, but it’s too muffled to make out anything but expletives and his name. And it’s good, so good, as Wade rolls his hips into him naturally like he’s been doing this forever and hadn’t stopped in the last six months. He rocks into him, cock dragging out before pushing back in all over again. And even though it’s all fluid and full, it’s not enough.  
  
So Peter lifts his hips to meet the thrusts and lifts his arms so that he can rake his nails down Wade’s back sharply. He pulls him closer, tighter to him like that will get him inside him deeper. But the more that Peter curls into him like he’s the only thing in the universe, Wade responds with eager thrusts, pressing Peter back into the mattress so that he can fuck into him harder.  
  
“So good,” Wade says, voice wrecked, “God you’re so tight. Forgot how tight you are, _fuck_ Peter.”  
  
“Yeah,” Peter hums, the bed creaking with the thrusts now, mixing into the litany of moans and gasps. “More, Wade please.”  
  
“Only ‘cause you asked nicely,” Wade laughs, and moves a little so that Peter’s ass is off the bed slightly and he’s not sure what else besides Wade ramming into him enough that he thinks he feels a little light headed.  
  
Peter feels like he’s melting, like he’ll disappear completely because he can’t after having Wade inside him like this keeping him together. He throws his head back, body shaking before he’s coming onto his stomach and Wade just continues if not _harder_ when Peter clenches around him. Peter is too blissed out though, nerves high off pleasure and Wade.  
  
“Peter,” Wade moans like a warning before he’s spilling inside of him, filling him up completely. He takes a moment to breathe before pulling out, and Peter tugs him down because he’s exhausted and not actually coherent and just wants to sleep.  
  
Whatever needs to be said can wait until tomorrow, he decides, and curls into the way that Wade wraps his body around him before blacking out.  
.  
.  
Peter wakes up cold.  
  
The blankets are strewn across the floor with his clothes, but Wade is missing. The shower isn’t running, the TV isn’t blaring, there’s no sound but the increase of his own pulse and the catch of his breath.  
  
He should have known this would happen. Peter focuses on breathing, holding his head in his hands. This was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake. Nothing would change because Wade can’t handle that. Peter might not get the normalcy that he wants when he’s involved in this kind of life, but he can’t understand why Wade has to run away.  
  
And it hurts, like reopening an old wound. It fucking stings but Peter isn’t going to break down over this. It’s not worth it. Especially when there’s too much to think about instead.  
  
It’s not like Wade doesn’t care, he thinks, tracing a red hickey on his collar with the pad of his finger, otherwise he wouldn’t have done all of this in the first place. Wade wants him, last night is proof of that enough. So why can’t he just _stay?_ What could he be afraid of after watching Peter pine for so long over him?  
  
He lays there a little longer, mad at Wade for being an asshole all over again and a bit more than just hurt. But life moves on and Peter collects his clothes. He’ll find Wade this time and finally punch him in the jaw for leaving--twice. And they’ll go from there.  
  
Because it fucking hurts, but Peter isn’t going to break this time.


End file.
